


Cell Block Tango

by MarvelousMenagerie (HiddenOne)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers are prison inmates, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Prison AU, Stony Bingo, mostly pre-slash, pre-IronMan1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 14:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10115105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenOne/pseuds/MarvelousMenagerie
Summary: Tony Stark wasn't really expecting to end up in prison, even if he did commit a crime. He saved Rhodey's life hijacking that military operation, he certainly wasn't going to apologize for it. Turns out there's many things he doesn't expect.For one, having a cellmate in the form of Steve Rogers.For another, the cash reward on his own head.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Stony Bingo prompt of Prison AU.
> 
> Many, many thanks to both a_sparrows_fall and lazywriter7 over on Imzy for their eagle eyes and marvelous feedback and assistance with this! My endless appreciation!!

"Here you are, Mr. Stark: home sweet home."

Tony slides the sunglasses (against regulation, but he hadn't worn—and subsequently lost—one of his least-favorite watches into this place without the expectation of a few perks) down his face to evaluate what the guard is doing a Vanna White impression of. And behind door number three is a small cell with a concrete floor. The fluorescent lighting really highlights the stainless steel toilet in the corner and how badly the walls needed another coat of off-white paint.

Even worse, the top bed of the bunk bed is already occupied.

"I believe there's been a mistake. I specifically requested my own room," Tony kindly corrects, his eyes going to his—or, well, _someone's_ , certainly not Tony's—bunkmate.

The bunkmate lifts his eyes from his book to evaluate Tony. Tony puts on his best smile, and the man scoffs before going back to reading. Tony rolls his eyes and turns back to the guard who didn't meet Tony's gaze and shifts on his feet back and forth.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark sir. See, we've been quite crowded lately and—"

"Dan," Tony interrupts. "Dan, Dan. I told you, didn't I? That it'd all been arranged? Why don't we go back to your supervisor and straighten out this mess."

For a moment, Dan—a twenty-five year old whose desire for a job outweighs his need to apply his marketing degree in practice—looks torn. Tony gives it just another moment before—

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark. I can go check with the supervisor again, but my current orders are to get you settled in here."

Tony lets himself be herded into the cell, biting his tongue over all the things he would like to say. Instead, he filters down to, "Of course. I'll see you soon," through a tight smile as Dan shuts the barred metal door behind him.

Tony doesn't flinch at the sound, but it seems to reverberate inside his chest. The sound of the key turning does the same. He lets out a long, long breath before smiling as Dan tells him he'll check-in again at the end of the shift to let Tony know.

If it turns out the system screwed him over, if they took his bribe without giving him proper accommodations, then he may need to reevaluate his promise to Pepper to not break out of prison.

Dan scurries away, and Tony slowly turns to reevaluate his cellmate. Even laying down on his bed, it was obvious the man had several inches—both height and width—on Tony. Blonde, muscular, and bright blue eyes. Tony would take his time looking, under normal circumstances, but given that he was currently locked in a prison cell with the man who was clearly guilty of something, Tony kept his evaluation brief.

"So, what are you in for?" Tony asks as he waltzes closer. His cellmate had taken the upper bunk, which, fine, Tony didn't want anyway. They were so narrow—and God, these sheets are awful, where did they buy them, the nearest dollar store?—that Tony was guaranteed to fall off for the first few nights. Probably better to fall from the lower bunk.

The man doesn't acknowledge him, and Tony frowns. Rhodey had told him, repeatedly, to keep his head down, cooperate with the authorities, and not to make waves with the other inmates. His appeal process was already filed, Tony just needed to sit tight for a bit.

And Tony really didn't want to get shanked in prison. Rhodey would feel super guilty about it, even if it wasn't his fault—it was technically the fault of the United States government for trying him for their own crime. After all, they were the ones who gave Hammer Industries that contract instead of Stark Industries, thereby putting Rhodey in a faulty jet.

So prison it was, at least for the foreseeable future, but Tony didn't take well to be ignored—by anyone.

"Kill a man?" Tony tosses out. "Kill a woman? Robbery? Tax evasion?"

The man doesn't respond for one beat, two, and Tony is about to list all the crimes he can remember that might qualify someone for federal prison when the man finally offers, "Forgery," in a disinterested tone.

"Oh, a forger. Copier," Tony mildly critiques as he slowly wanders and examines the rest of the cell. "I've had people copy my work," he continues, his mind focused on Justin Hammer. Tony scowls at the chipped cement block in front of his face. "Generally it's because they're never as good as the original."

Tony grimaces as he realizes what he's said. He takes a quick peek back at his cellmate—who is currently not lunging for his throat, a good sign—but he's gripping his book tighter and glaring at Tony.  

Well, at least Tony is used to not sleeping. Hopefully Dan will get his act together and get Tony his own room soon.

"And you?" the man asks, voice cool. "I can't imagine the government is finally cracking down on corruption."

"Pot, kettle," Tony responds. "No, the government doesn't take kindly to people who hack into one of their fighter jets and force a landing," he admits with a bit of a smirk. It hadn't been impossible, obviously, but certainly not easy. Easier than he would like, knowing Rhodey regularly pilots one, but given the circumstances he'd gladly accept it hadn't been harder. "Even if it does save the pilot's life," Tony mutters to himself as he evaluates the dirt stuck to the wall and wonders if he can guess how long it's been since the last cleaning.

"How surprising," his bunkmate replies, no sympathy in his tone.

Really, Tony thinks he should have at most gotten house arrest. And bonus, he couldn't attend board meetings in New York if he's legally on lock down in Malibu with government-sponsored ankle jewelry monitoring his movements. Skipping out on meetings due to incarceration was more fun when joking with Pepper rather than actually true.

Tony has paced the interior of his eight by ten foot cell sixteen times when Dan finally returns. Tony can tell by his shuffling and hunched shoulders, though, that he doesn't bring good tidings.

"Sorry, Mr. Stark. We're full-up at the moment, but they have you marked the next time there's some rearranging. We just can't afford not to have all beds occupied."

"Aren't there isolation rooms or something?"

Dan stares at him, then quickly shakes his head. "You don't want to go in _there_ , Mr. Stark. Certainly not on a permanent basis. We can't put you in there without justified cause, anyway. Against regulation."

After Dan leaves, Tony slams his fist against the wall. “Fantastic,” he mutters.

“Your government bribe money at work,” his bunkmate deigns to comment.

Tony clenches his fists before relaxing them, instead drumming his fingers against his thighs. “Remind me—what happened to your previous roommate? Just curious, no particular reason I’m asking that question.”

His bunkmate looks him over, head to toe, before he goes back to his book. He turns the page, smirking. “Don’t worry, you’ll never meet him. He's no longer... here.”

Tony gives him a tight grin.

It only takes one sleepless night keeping an eye out, waiting for his bunkmate to reach down and grab his throat, for Tony to decide he had enough motivation to try out the isolation rooms.

Starting a riot in the cafeteria is all too easy.

Two days in on his punishment of solitary confinement, twenty-four hours a day of isolation for two whole weeks, Tony realizes that it probably wasn't his brightest idea. He never leaves the cell, never gets away from the white walls boxing him in. When he drew on the walls for something, they shut the lights off on him and that had been much worse.

Finally he's guided back to his original cell, and he keeps his hands clenched to keep them from shaking.

"You realize that went on your record," his bunkmate feels the need to inform him when Tony shuffles back in. There's another book in his hands, and Tony barely strangles the urge to grab it and smack him - to start a fight because at least that would be interaction, a human touch. In isolation, Tony couldn't even pretend he was talking to JARVIS because he couldn't be sure the cameras they trained on him didn't have audio. "It'll be harder to get out on good behavior."

"Please, no one expects me to have 'good behavior,'" Tony manages to mutter in reply as he collapses onto the bed. His voice is rusty from disuse, and he suddenly runs out of energy to keep a conversation going. He grabs a stub of graphite pencil he'd smuggled out from the library that first day and scratches out basic equations on the wall, down where the frame hides them from the door.

No more advice showers down from the top bunk, which is great, because Tony was only going to ignore it anyway. He listens for the sound of his bunkmate's breathing, the sound of the pages turning, and the occasional fidgeting.

The sounds of not being alone let Tony finally breathe.

* * *

 

Outdoor recess is, just like the movies portray, a dangerous time. And while Dan certainly gives him a respectful nod and a smile when he passes him in the hallway—either it hasn't yet been trained out of him or he's hoping for a ten percent tip on his salary—he usually isn't one of the guards that line the perimeter. At least Dan pays him attention. The guards on duty in the yard are more interested in smoking and chatting than making sure none of the inmates are pushed around.

The yard wasn't too far off from the dynamics of boarding school, actually, Tony realizes. And he has to find his place in the hierarchy. The Stark name has plenty of uses—money and connections—but they only matter outside of prison, and therefore to the guys who were planning on getting out soon.

For better or for worse, Tony's bunkmate appears to be the leader of a clique that is given a wide berth from the rest of the inmates. Given their beginning, Tony follows everyone else's example and stays clear too, which is why it takes him another week to figure out his bunkmates' name is Steve Rogers.

Steve Rogers, who was three years into his eight year sentence on multiple counts of forgery - art forgery, where he made and sold duplicates of historical paintings to the type of millionaires and billionaires who wanted the prestige of displaying an original work. Fortunately Tony—or rather, Pepper, with her critical eye and talent for spotting shady deals —had avoided his scam.

Rhodey had given him Rogers’ life history on one of his visits, which meant Rhodey was still feeling guilty. Normally he at least put up a token protest at using his misusing his credentials. But at least now Tony knows Rogers’ record didn't contain any hints of violence; apparently his previous cellmate had gotten on parole three days before Tony arrived.

Tony might, just maybe, have to give Rogers a little credit. Sure, he had played on Tony's fear of ending up with a cellmate who was going to kill him, but in retrospect the mislead is a bit funny. Tony got a chuckle out of it, anyway.

"How do you live like this?" Tony asks the next day, his hands waving at the blank walls. Blank, except by Tony's bed where he has scribbled equations and drawn dimensions and mostly kept it basic, things SI has already patented, in case anyone is paying attention.

Rogers looks at him, then at the walls. "What?"

"What? What do you mean, what? You're an artist, aren't you? How do you live like this with blank walls?"

Rogers frowns at him and goes back to his book. History, always history. Art history, military history, anything written about the period of time at least fifty years ago. Sometimes Tony wants to shove a newspaper in Rogers’ face.

"I asked you a question," Tony prompts. "It was even semi-polite by my standards."

"I'm a forger, not an artist," is all Rogers says and then pointedly raises his book in front of his face.

Tony rolls his eyes. "Oh, don't be so dramatic. You can draw, can't you? Or paint, or whatever? I don't care what it is, whether Picasso or da Vinci or whoever did it first, or if it's all you and happens to be on equal level with a kindergartner. If I have to stare at these blank walls for another day I'm going to go insane."

"I think it's too late for that," Rogers mutters under his breath.

Tony smirks. "Unless you want the inner workings of a car engine mapped out above your head, get decorating."

The next day there is a single sheet of paper taped to the wall. Tony waltzes up to it, smirking, and then sees that it's a cartoon sketch of him, complete with the goatee. The picture of him is swearing, lump on his head as the hood of a car rests on it. He holds a wrench that he's threatening the car's engine with, grease and oil everywhere.

"I generally don't work on cars in my business suits. But excellent. I feel more at home already," Tony declares, leaving the sketch up.

Rogers doesn't look at him.

Over the next few days, the stack of papers Rogers had neatly stacked on his shelf gets smaller, though, as page after started to be taped to the wall. The sketches are finished in pen, mostly black but sometimes with blue or red highlights. Sketches of people, places, maps, even Starry Night makes a debut - though Rogers keeps them all clustered to the wall space by his bed.

Once, Tony comes back from watching a game of pool - he'd have to wait for the tournament bracket to start over again before he gets a shot - to find Rogers replacing a previous sketch with a newer one. The line of where Rogers felt it acceptable to put his artwork clearly drawn, Tony rolls his eyes and walks over. He goes up on his tiptoes to yank one of his favorites, the inside of a busy coffee shop where Tony can stare at the steam rising out of the coffee cups with envy, off the wall and puts it down near his own area.

"There, problem solved. Engineers fix things," Tony reminds Rogers as he takes a seat on his bunk and rolls out of Rogers' sight.

Rogers sighs loudly but says nothing. Eventually a drawing of Tony makes another appearance on the wall, this time just above the toilet. Now, Tony lectures a vague audience in tank tops and jeans, oil smeared on his face and madly waving a newspaper with the headline, 'Engineers Fix the World!'

Tony laughs, and he turns to grin at Rogers. Rogers gives him a smile - one that looks a bit relieved - before ducking his head and going back to one of his books. Tony, after finished using the toilet, takes the drawing and moves it to a safer place that just happened to be by his bunk and next to the previous sketch of him.

Maybe Rogers liked accuracy in his sketches, but Tony looked good in the latest drawing. Side-by-side to the old one, it's easy to notice the more detail put into his face, and with the outfit change Tony's muscles are on display.

Tony grins and decides it's only fair if he checks out Rogers more too.

Relations less hostile, Tony risks broaching Rogers’ clique and making friendly contact with Bruce Banner, whose forays into medical meth hadn't worked out but still retained enough brain cells to debate drug design theories with Tony over meals. It’s probably a good thing they don't have access to a laboratory, because Tony's fingers itch to test out the potential of the molecular structures they come up with.

Tony tries not to think about why his appeal is taking so long, all the things he can't build, how JARVIS is doing with DUM-E and U and Butterfingers. Rhodey and Pepper plead with him to keep his head down, they're almost done jumping through all the legal hoops, Tony just needs to be patient.

Patience, Tony reminds himself as he tags on the end of the flow of inmates headed out to the yard.   

He convinces Bruce to ditch his usual gossip session with the rest of Rogers' gang and continue their own debate on how to go about removing some of the more dangerous hallucinogenic effects from LSD without losing its potency. No one approaches them as they pace around the yard, yelling and gesticulating, and wow, what Tony would give for his holographic interfaces right now.

"Okay, I don't think I can continue this discussion without something to write this down," Bruce finally cuts Tony off.

"Come on, Brucie. You've got to live in the moment!"

"Like you aren't going to try to remember everything we say and pass it off to Pepper to hold onto until you can get out of here," Bruce points out. Before Tony can come up with a reply that doesn't admit to his system—at least Bruce hadn't guessed that Pepper had JARVIS actively working on some of the more interesting concepts—Bruce continues, "Come on, why don't you join us. I can officially introduce you to the rest, and you can talk to more people than just me."

"You're more than enough man for me," Tony shoots off. "But, uh, thanks, I do appreciate the offer, but today I'm going to hit the showers early before they get crowded. I send my love, though!"

Bruce chuckles and waves him off, and Tony heads back inside. He signs in and heads for the showers, grinning when he only finds two other people who seem to be finishing up.

Tony takes his time when he's finally alone, pretending he's back in Malibu and showering after a successful breakthrough in the workshop. It's a hard fantasy to sell, and Tony sighs and lets it go as more men traipse inside. He hurries up to finish before it gets so crowded that someone joins him at his shower head.

He heads down the hall, towel around his waist and clothes in his hand. He turns the corner and his cell is just in sight when a towel wraps around his neck and is pulled tight.

Tony croaks, dropping everything to grab the towel and try to pull it away from his throat. His attacker crosses the ends and pulls, as if they could decapitate Tony with a towel alone. He scratches at the cloth, not able to pull it away even for a quick gasp. Tony lurches backwards, managing to ram into his attacker, which relaxes the towel enough for a quick intake of air.

Tony throws his elbow back, aiming for the solar plexus. His attacker grunts when he connects, but then Tony gets shoved face first into the door of the nearest cell—unfortunately still empty, though Tony bets that the inmates wouldn’t have interfered.

The bars dig into his face as his attacker pushes his entire weight against Tony, pulling the towel tight again. But Tony still has his hands free, and this time he goes for a grab to the groin, pulling and twisting.

The man howls and releases Tony. Tony twists out to the side, yanking the towel from his neck and panting for air. The man—Vanko, larceny—lunges at him and Tony gets in one glancing punch to Vanko's jaw before he's tackled to the floor.  

Tony panics for one long moment—he and Happy had always quit boxing when one of them hit the floor—but then Vanko is getting lifted off of him, someone's arm wrapped around his neck.

"Rogers," Tony identifies his savior with a wheeze as he stares up at the pair from the floor.

"Stark," Rogers replies calmly as he tightens his headlock on Vanko. "I didn't think you were going to try the isolation route again."

"I didn't—I don't even know what his deal is," Tony defends, voice hoarse. He levers himself to a sitting position, breathing deep and focusing on the way air feels going in and out of his lungs.

Quick footsteps head towards them, and Tony grabs his towel—fallen from his waist sometime during the proceedings—and places it in his lap.

"Let him go, Rogers!" the guard in front of the pack yells as he waves his taser with intent.

Rogers obediently releases the man, who tries to flee—to where, Tony has no idea, but Tony snaps out his towel to tangle in the man's legs anyway, sending him crashing to the ground.

Rogers stifles a snort of laughter and Tony manages to shoot a dirty grin his way. "Prep school, if you can believe it," Tony explains.

Rogers shakes his head at the floor, but Tony has just enough time to see Rogers eyes do a quick mapping of Tony's naked form before Rogers turns away quickly to the guards. Tony smirks as he covers his lap with his towel.

Most of the guards are piled onto Vanko's form, pinning him to the floor and handcuffing him. "Vanko was attacking Stark when I showed up," Rogers offers.

"He was trying to suffocate me with a towel," Tony explains, rubbing his throat. Rogers narrows his eyes, frowning. Tony isn't sure if he's trying to communicate that Tony should or shouldn't squeal to the guards, but he doesn't want the guards to think he and Rogers are conspiring so Tony looks away.

"Why?" one of the guards prompts.

"No idea," Tony offers up with a shrug. He hasn't met Vanko, just seen him across the yard a few times. Rumor mill had him as a physicist before he decided high-end larceny paid more, but the hard look in his eyes prevented Tony from ever deciding that chatting him up for science was worth the risk.

Bruce is a bit crazy with the drugs, but at least he’s an overall decent and easy-going guy.

"I was just heading back to my cell from the showers and he jumped me," Tony explains.

"Okay, back to your cell—Stark and Rogers both. You're on lockdown until further notice and we sort this mess out," one of the guards decides. His taser is still out, at the ready, and Tony gets to his feet and wraps the towel around his waist. Rogers scoops up the rest of the Tony's stuff and they make their way back to the cell, one guard close on their heels.

The door slams shut and locks behind them.

"Well. Unprovoked attacks on your life aren't a good sign," Rogers offers as he dumps Tony's stuff on his bed. "I hope you've actually done something, or it's bad news."

"Well then it's bad news," Tony sighs as he pulls a pair of clean clothes from a cubby under the bed. He feels the towel slipping down his waist and looks out of the corner of his eye to see Rogers shifting on his feet.

Rogers clears his throat. "Really? Nothing?"

"Nothing," Tony confirms as he sets his fresh pair of clothes on the bed. Usually they try to give each other some semblance of privacy while changing, but Tony has been sneaking peeks when he can get away with it. He certainly doesn't mind giving Rogers a free show.

Tony drops the towel and proceeds to slowly put his clothes on. Rogers quickly climbs up onto his bed and grabs his book. When his face is hidden behind the book, Tony takes a long, slow look over Rogers body laid out. For equality, Tony tells himself.

Then, fully clothed, he drops onto his own bed and rubs his throat. He grabs his pencil and paper—Pepper had brought him three new notebooks last time, and despite being archaic, it's at least better than the wall—and loses himself detailing out some of the equations he and Bruce had bantered about.

"It would be good to know if they're going to prank the cell," Rogers continues that night, just after lights out. "I promise not to judge you for it if you did something."

"Because you're so good at that," Tony shoots off. Then he sighs. "No. Nothing that I can think of. I didn't even cut the lunch line at all this week."

Rogers doesn't reply, and Tony can just see his skeptical expression. "I promise. I have committed no untoward acts that I can remember in the past couple of days. I've never even spoken to Vanko, and can't imagine I've pissed anyone off that he runs with, not enough to bother with killing me. Maybe he's just jealous we didn't invite him to our science conventions."

Rogers chuckles at that. "Bruce is dealing a lot better with his sentence because of you. Thanks for that."

"I didn't do it for you," Tony defends. "Or to get on your good side, or get an in, or whatever you're thinking."

Rogers sighs. "No—I didn't—I wasn't thinking that. I guess it's not my place to thank you, or whatever, but I'm glad Bruce has something. Something he enjoys—even if it _is_ with you," Rogers finishes with exaggerated grievance.

Tony relaxes a tiny fraction, taking the joke for what it is. "Some of us are more than our muscles, you know," he teases back.

"Sure, Stark. You should be thanking what these muscles did for you today."

"Don't hold your breath."

"Oh, I know better than that."

* * *

 

"There's a hit out on you," Rogers informs him the next day. They've finally been let out of lockdown with Vanko in isolation. During the attack, Tony had moved just in-frame of one of the security cameras, catching Vanko tackling him to the floor. With Vanko refusing to speak and the camera corroborating Tony's story, the guards had finally let them loose.

Tony pauses, his mystery meat halfway to his mouth. "How much am I worth?" he finally asks before shoving the food in his mouth. Whatever it was supposed to be, it wasn't half-bad. DUM-E could learn a trick or two from the chefs here.

"Your dead body is worth five hundred thousand," Rogers says with a frown.

"Huh. That's oddly disappointing," Tony comments. "Normally I'm worth at least a few hundred million. CEO of Stark Industries—you might've heard of it."

"Well, now you're a lowly inmate," Rogers reminds him, stabbing his own food with more violence than needed. Maybe Tony should have Rhodey double-check Rogers’ record about violent tendencies - or maybe it's the draw of the money.

"How did you find this out? By putting your name in the ring?" Tony asks, affecting nonchalance.

"I'm not killing you for money," Rogers growls. "Clint told me."

"Is this you warning me?" Tony asks, searching the crowd for Clint Barton, another member of Rogers’ gang.

"Clint's not a killer," Bruce informs him.

"He's in here for murder," Tony argues.

"No he's not," Rogers defends. "He was only convicted of—"

"Mail fraud? That's like tax evasion for Al Capone," Tony points out. "Prison has changed me, my moral grounds are shifting, I can no longer believe a man is innocent until proven guilty. My eyes are forever opened, no longer can I be the naive—"

"The point is," Rogers overrides, "that someone—someone on the outside—wants you dead. You're vulnerable until you find out who that is and stop them from handing out money. Sometimes the guards even aren't opposed to taking a shot at that kind of pot."

"Excellent. I'll just waltz out of here and interrogate all of my company's enemies to figure out who wants to off me and cut of the R&D for the company, that sounds like a grand plan," Tony bites out.

"Chill, guys," Bruce hisses. "You're drawing attention."

Rogers leans back and away from Tony. "Figure out a plan, genius. I can't protect you 24/7."

"I never asked you to," Tony says, shoving his lunch tray away.

"Stop," Bruce orders both of them. "Tony, stop playing Russian roulette with your life. I don't want you to get murdered, okay? Imagine if I had to try to debate the merit of additional phenol rings with Steve."

Tony barks out a laugh, and Rogers lets out a long sigh. "I did have high school chemistry. I know what those are, you know."

Tony flaps a hand at him. "They're so cute when they think they know things," he patronizes.

Rogers rolls his eyes.

"So, are we detailing Stark now?" Barton asks as he takes a seat next to him. Tony swallows a screech and leans away, into Bruce's space. "Whoa, panicky much?"

"I told him about the hit," Rogers says.

"Duh. So are we protection detail? Stark is worth more than a couple lousy hundred thousand."

"...Thank you?" Tony decides on.

Barton nods, accepting the gratitude. "Yeah, I figure you’ve got the connections to get me into a less secure facility and then it’s bye bye birdy."

Tony reels back, offended. "Please. I could get you out of _this_ facility with a three feet of wire, a light bulb, and six toothbrushes."

Barton leans forward, eyes wide. "Tell me more."

"Shut it," Rogers barks.

Tony sneers and opens his mouth, but Bruce slaps his hand over it. Tony glares, turning towards Bruce, but then he sees two guards coming down the line on their patrol.

Bruce removes his hand, and Tony picks up his silverware.

"I heard the Patriots are on another winning streak. Nightmare, honestly," Barton tosses out, and Rogers immediately continues the conversation, asking about the next matchup.

"Ugh, football. I almost bought the Dallas Cowboys because of this cheerleader I dated way back when. Dodged a bullet on that one," Tony mutters.

No one responds, and Tony looks up, confused. He meets Rogers’ eyes, wide in disbelief.

"Oh my God. Stark, I'm changing my price. Buy me a football team and I'll keep you alive forever," Barton promises.

Tony looks at him, then to Rogers, and finally Bruce. He supposes he should finally meet Thor, too, the last member of the group and the most intimidating. Though now Thor being intimidating might work out in Tony's favor, rather than be a reason to avoid him. No one seems to be able to figure out why Thor is in prison in the first place, not even Bruce, Thor’s cellmate. Though that’s because Bruce primly refuses to ask out of some misplaced sense of politeness.

"Oh no, does this mean I have to join your prison boyband, too?” Tony asks Rogers. “All it takes for an invite is a football team?”

“Say yes, say yes, say yes,” Barton chants at Rogers.

“Sure, Tony,” Rogers agrees with a smile, shaking his head.

Tony meets Steve’s teasing gaze for one beat, then two. “Deal. Steve.”

Barton stifles his whoop just in time, and the guards pass them by without a second look.

Only Justin Hammer would think it was a good idea to order a hit on his competition, but Pepper, even with help from JARVIS, hasn’t been able to turn up any evidence. They discover that Hammer does keep an entire shrine of stuff on Tony, though. Tony isn't sure he can ever shake Hammer's hand again after seeing how high the hit count is on one of Tony's sex tapes on Hammer's office computer.

Two weeks later, though, and during another one of their weekly meetings — at least Tony didn't have to put up with Board meetings — and Pepper passes on a message from JARVIS: Project Atlas.

Tony feels his entire body freeze, just for a moment, before asking Pepper how she’s planning on kicking Hammer's ass after his comments to CNN the other day about the future of SI. The rest of the conversation only receives twelve percent of his attention, and Pepper leaves early because of course she knows. She knows the message will occupy him, even if she definitely doesn’t know what it means.

Project Atlas. Completed three years ago, when Tony launched the last satellite he needed to be able to cover the globe. Currently, it only enables him to get spectacular cell phone service anywhere, but eventually he'd present his business strategies for them to the Board - or Pepper would, if he is still stuck in prison by the time the Board is ready for them. But Project Atlas started from the comment about how SI, or more specifically Tony, had the weight of the world on his shoulders. And Tony had wanted to know the size, shape, and look of that world before he took on the challenge.

Obie had made that comment. Obie had sparked that project, Tony had made a specific note, so he could let Obie take some of the credit and help him sell the Board on Tony's plans.

Tony goes back to his cell and immediately throws up.

He doesn't need JARVIS to lay it out for him. There might not even be a digital trail to follow for everything; Obie is smart and just old-school enough to pull it off. From the heavy sentence, to the lack of solitary housing beyond complete isolation, to the denial of the appeal, down to the price on Tony's head.

"Are you poisoned?" Steve asks, rushing to Tony's side.

Tony shakes his head, but keeps his head in the toilet. Already he'd had four attempts on his life, at least ones obvious enough to be recognizable attempts. And Obie—Obie is responsible.

Eventually Tony cleans himself up and acknowledges Steve hovering over him. Worried blue eyes meet his own for a moment before they slowly check him over, and Tony would preen but doesn't have the energy.

"It's—uh, I'm fine. Not sick, so don't need to go to medical. Just need a minute," Tony mumbles and crawls onto his bed.

"Yeah, you look fine," Steve accuses and he shifts Tony to the side so he can sit on the edge. He reaches out a hand, first for Tony's forehead and then aborts the movement to end up to rest on Tony's shoulder.

"Leave me alone," Tony says, turning away. Obie? Obie...really?

"That's your pity party face."

"Well, excuse me if I'm not excited about the prospect of being stuck here with you," Tony snarls.

"You could get a roommate who will actually murder you when you say stupid stuff," Steve points out coolly. He gets up from Tony's bed and climbs onto his own - probably to keep reading one of his history books, the nerd.

Tony sighs and rolls onto his back. Out of the corner of his eye catches the latest drawing he had stolen from Steve's collection - Clint playing football in a Stark Industries jersey with Tony on the sidelines waving a pair of pom poms.

 He practices saying it in his head first: _Obie—no, Stane, Stane my CFO—no, he's CEO since the whole prison thing—the CEO of my company is trying to kill me, only it's not my company anymore and fuck, why do I still design stuff for them if they're trying to kill me?_

"Stane - the guy who became CEO of my company when I became a felon set up the hit on me," Tony finally admits.

Steve gives a low whistle. "That's cold."

"...Yeah."

"What are you going to do about it?" Steve eventually asks.

Tony takes a deep breath in, then lets it out. His mind races, shying away from memories of Obie praising his designs, Obie standing by him at his parents' funeral, Obie training him how to be a CEO. He calculates his odds, thinks of the probabilities, estimates timelines.

"Nothing," Tony finally offers in answer. "Nothing for now. But—" Tony catches the words behind his teeth before he lets them go.

He can't say. Not to anyone. Stane can't ever figure out that Tony knows, or what Tony can plan for him once he's back on the outside.

Steve hums, and Tony has already said too much. "Clint has good aim."

Tony chokes on air. "I'm not—" he breaks off, and starts again at a lower volume, "I'm not going to kill him, or put out a hit on him. God Rogers," he hisses, "at most I'm going to kick him out of my company and drag him through the mud so that no one would give him their business with a twenty foot pole."

Silence from the top bunk for several moments. "If you change your mind," Steve finally says.

"You've ruined it, I'm no longer going to buy any of your artwork to torture my employees with. Deal officially off the table," Tony grumbles before he buries his head under his pillow.

“What do you mean ‘to torture your employees?’” Steve asks.

“Too late, doesn’t matter anyway, it’s never happening,” Tony shouts from underneath his pillow. “You’ve ruined it by being a blood-thirsty bastard, doesn’t matter.”

“You were going to buy my artwork?”

“Not anymore,” Tony declares. “This isn’t a difficult concept. I don’t know why you’re struggling with this idea.”

“But you were, you were thinking about it. Putting my artwork in Stark Industries? Are you kidding?” Steve asks, his voice rising in pitch. “You think I’d consent to have my artwork hung in the dreary halls of some capitalistic hell of a corporation? What kind of artist do you think I am?”

“Hey, now!” Tony objects.

“Please. I have standards.”

“I’m telling Pepper you said that about her art collection. Don’t ever set foot out of prison, or she’ll find you and put you back in here herself.”

The bed above him squeaks, and with a sigh Tony turns so that he can look at Steve hanging over the edge.

“I expected a lot of things out of prison, but finding someone to buy my art was never one of them. I don't...?"

The confusion and disbelief on Steve's face causes Tony to sigh and roll his eyes. “Whatever. Your stuff would have to get Pepper’s approval anyway, so I guess this saves me all that trouble.” He turns away and pulls a blanket over his head. He doesn’t want to think about Barton and his talents, talents that Obie would hire in a heartbeat to get rid of him because he doesn’t just want Tony kicked out of SI, no, he wants him _dead_ -

The bed squeaks again, Steve rolling back up. “But if my stuff did pass inspection?” he asks, with Tony barely able to hear him.

Tony sighs and lifts the blanket. “Are we having a heart to heart right now? Really? Fine, if Pepper approved your stuff, then sure, I would put it in SI to be ogled at by the employees of capitalism in our natural hell environment. Happy?”

“You say the nicest things, Tony. I’m going to miss you when you get out.”

* * *

 

"I'm sorry, Tony," Rhodey says, the phone clutched to his ear.

Tony almost doesn't hear it, his ears ringing. He shakes his head and pastes a smile on his face. "It's... it's all good, honey bear. Orange is starting to become my new color anyway," he speaks into his own handset.

"Tony," is all Rhodey says, and there are tears in his eyes. He puts one hand to the glass wall between them, and Tony matches it. Tony holds onto his smile out of pure practice.

"I'll be okay. I'm going to start my own gang, call it Stark Inmates - the new SI." Rhodey laughs, a strangled weak thing. "I'll be fine, cupcake," Tony assures. "Just—just visit when you can, yeah?"

"Every chance I get," Rhodey promises.

"You're the best."

"Tony—"

"I'll be fine, Rhodey," Tony assures him again.

The conversation ends quickly after that, and Tony sits back in the chair for a moment, reeling.

No appeal. No lighter sentence. Federal prison for fifteen years, with a chance of parole after seven.

Seven years.

He hasn't even been inside for a month yet.

Pepper visits him next, saying it isn't over yet, the entire legal department is exploring all of their options. She doesn't mention how much company stock tanked, and he doesn't ask.

“Don't do anything stupid, Tony,” she warns.

Tony smiles, winks, and passes her the latest design schematics for lighter body armor. He doesn't think about the Board deciding to change the logo to Stane Industries.

Tony walks back to his cell. He doesn't think about Obie sitting at Tony's desk in Tony's office, getting ash from his cigar all over Tony's floor.

Tony drums his fingers on his sheets. The awful sheets that Obie exiled him to, ones that scratched his skin and had who knows how many stains on them from previous residents. Seven more years of this before even a shot at parole? As if. Especially not if Stane increases the reward on Tony's dead body.

When Steve comes back from the yard, Tony has escalated to pacing the cell.

"If JARVIS could find the evidence, he would have already. Damn Obie for being smart. I could get out on a mistrial, obvious bribery, everything!" Tony rants.

"Wait, what?" Steve asks, stepping out of Tony's way.

"Seven years, seven years - ha! Did he plan this for seven years? Seventeen? Since _I_ was seventeen, was this the plan all along? Is this what 'good business' is, Steve?"

Steve slowly slides over to the bunks.

Tony whirls to face him. "Are you in, or what?"

"Am I...in?" Steve repeats, eyes wide.

"I want Clint as a backup plan, but I'm going to do some digging myself first. I'll definitely need Bruce's help, and it never hurts to have someone who looks like Thor around. Are you in, or what?"

Steve blinks. "What am I supposed to be doing?"

"You'll stand there and look pretty unless we need camouflage painted or something, I don't know, are you in or not?" Tony asks, hands waving.

Steve glares, frowning. "Why am I—no, never mind," he ends, shaking his head. "What are we doing?"

"That's a yes," Tony decides with a sigh a relief. He lets his body fall onto his bunk and tugs Steve into sitting next to him. He leans closer, speaking quietly. "You, me, the rest of the gang. We're getting out of here pronto before I get off'ed and my company is renamed Stane Industries."

"Your appeal...?" Steve asks just as quietly.

"Denied," Tony answers flatly. "Stane is mostly likely behind the charges in the first place." At Steve's look, Tony amends, "Okay, sure, I did break the law, rather impressively I might add, and to save Rhodey's life, by hijacking a military operation. But come on, prison time? For me?"

"Yes, how dare the rich get convicted and sentenced to jail," Steve drawls.

"See, you provide entertainment and not just good looks," Tony says, knocking his shoulder into Steve's.

Steve breathes out a laugh before his face turns serious. "Tony...are you sure? I mean, have you thought this through? You'll be on the run, not returning as the CEO to Stark Industries."

Tony grimaces. "I'll be out of his hell-hole under constant threat of my life and free to find evidence. If I can't clear my name, then I'll purchase a private island and retire there while I set Pepper up with a new company. Probably clean energy, that's a good market -"

"Are you sure?" Steve interrupts him again, face still drawn.

Tony offers a small but sincere smile. "I'm sure. I can't stay here another seven years. You coming with me?" And he isn't above resting his hand on Steve's knee.

Steve glances down at Tony's hand before he meets Tony's gaze again. One moment, then another, and Steve licks his lips. "Okay," he says quietly. "Okay, I'm in," he says more strongly.

"Are you sure?" Tony asks in return.

Steve is quiet for a moment. "I get three meals a day and a roof over my head here. I've certainly had worse," he says quietly. "But I don't have anyone waiting for me to get out or anything to go back to anyway. If I no longer have you to get my art into the hallowed halls of Stark Industries...then why not? Sure."

Tony squeezes Steve's knee. "Yeah, you'd miss me."

Steve smiles at him. "Something like that. I'll round up the rest tomorrow and set up a plan."

Tony scoffs. "You will, will you? Excuse you, who elected you leader of this escape plan?"

"Me," Steve states with a grin. He rests his hand over Tony's and squeezes, and Tony lets go of his retort to grin back instead.

Exactly three days—and another two attempts on Tony's life— later, they are all in position. Between Tony's seven escape plans and Steve's two, they'd managed to find one that expanded to breaking out five people at the same time. It’s not going to break any records, but Tony doesn't feel like granting anyone else a ticket to freedom just to put his name down in history (again). At least the gathered enough toothbrushes.

"Ready?" Steve whispers as they crouch in the corner, waiting for the guard to pass by on patrol. They'd need to silently dash forty yards of open space before they could duck behind a dumpster and wait for Bruce, Thor, and Clint to join them from the south side.

"Kiss for good luck?" Tony tosses out as his heart thumps loudly in his chest. On paper, everything should work perfectly and easily. In practice... he hasn't gotten a lot of practice at breaking out of prisons the old fashioned way.

Tony can feel Steve's gaze on his face, and he turns to meet it.

"I'm more a fan of the reward system. If we get out, then you get your kiss," Steve replies with a teasing smile.

A smile starts creeping across Tony's face before he turns it into an exaggerated pout. "Fine then. I'm eating a cheeseburger first though."

"Of course. Priorities."

The guard turns the corner, and Steve grabs his wrist. Together, they dash across the yard in the shadows toward freedom.


End file.
